When Fate Summons (a Dragon Age fanfiction)

Dressed for Success

The column of troops walked so long into the night that Thora wondered if they were hoping to walk straight through to Denerim without a break. An impossible goal, really, but she wouldn't put it past Dirnley and Sister Honoria to make the attempt. But at last, when the moon was high overhead, they called a halt. Thora's mustached guard, whose name, she had learned, was Jones, escorted her to a corner of the campsite. He stood near her while people bustled about collecting firewood and fetching water. It was a mess. Thora longed to stand up and take charge, make some order out of the chaos. No camp she'd ever run had been this much of a disaster. Over the din, she heard Alistair's raised voice.

"This is not to be borne! There are no mages anywhere nearby, you had your Templar cleanse me, what more proof do you want that there is no blood magic?"

Thora couldn't hear what Sister Honoria said, but all of Ferelden probably heard Alistair's response. "She is not a traitor!" he bellowed. "And you're all ungrateful wretches. How quickly you've forgotten what she did for you. Any other Blight would still be going on right now! The land under our feet would be blackened and tainted for generations to come. But Thora stopped all that—and now you want to call her a traitor based on unsubstantiated accusations?"

"Those accusations come from the Queen," Dirnley responded coldly. The camp was quieting as several of the chores were dropped half-finished so the workers could listen in on the argument.

"And what does the Queen know?" Alistair asked. "What you've told her?"

"It was all the truth," Dirnley said, his tone smug.

"You miserable spy," Alistair said. "Where's your pride?"

"Where is yours, Your Majesty?" Sister Honoria had raised her voice as well. "Carrying on with your paramour, concocting some ridiculous story about your daughter to cover up your affair?"

"Which is it, Sister? Am I under the spell of a blood mage or am I a simple adulterer? You might want to get your story straight before we get back to Denerim." Thora recognized the growing danger in the quiet tones. Alistair was a genial man, cordial and pleasant to a fault, which made it easy for others to assume he could be pushed around. But he was getting angry now—almost angry enough to push back against the leaders of this little coup and regain his authority. Thora could tell by his stance that the robes, constricting and unfamiliar and faintly ridiculous on him, were keeping him just enough off-kilter to prevent him from exercising his full power. Her mind raced, trying to figure out how to neutralize the effect of the robes.

Jones came over to Thora, holding out a cup of water. When she reached to take it, he said quietly, "I heard a rumor that the King killed Flemeth. The Flemeth! The soldier I heard it from said the King faced her down single-handed, with nothing in hand but a dagger and a piece of rope."

Thora grinned. Thanks, Teagan, she thought.

"That true?" Jones asked.

"If I tell you the story, will you do me a favor?" she asked.

Jones blinked. "Will I get in trouble for it?"

"I don't think so."

"Fire away, then." He sat down next to her, leaning down to hear her better.

Alistair was still arguing himself hoarse, making no headway at all into the dense wall of self-righteousness that Dirnley and Sister Honoria had built around themselves. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his arm. It was the young recruit, Mort. "Your Majesty?" Mort asked shyly.